Restoration
by scrub456
Summary: It's Sherlock's first case after coming back from the dead. John is stuck at the clinic, but Sherlock still needs an assistant. Who should a recently resurrected consulting detective call but a disgraced, slightly off, former forensics specialist. *Takes place before the events of "Inherent."*


_NOTE: I was working on another piece entirely for my series, looking back over "Inherent" as a reference, when I realized I made a heinous error. I had written Anderson present at the train yard, where Sherlock confronted the criminal Duncan Ross. BUT, in "Crucial" John mentions that Anderson got fired for trying to copy Sherlock's methods and going slightly crazy. GAH. What's an author to do? Well, get the offending character rehired, or course! So, this fix-it ficlet actually takes place one month after Sherlock's return to Baker Street, which would be, in this 'verse about five months before the events of "Inherent."_

* * *

"No John?" Lestrade made no effort to cover the wariness in his voice as he lifted the tape cordoning off access to the dank alley.

Sherlock hummed derisively. "Very good, detective. I'm happy to see you've not lost your deductive reasoning in my absence." Leaving his hands tucked deep in the pockets of the Belstaff - Lestrade winced at the fact that the great coat still hung too loosely over the slight frame - Sherlock ducked under the tape, forcing the D.I. to hold it up for him.

With a roll of his eyes, Lestrade let the barricade snap back into place, huffed a few breaths into his cupped hands in an attempt to warm them, and fell into step with the consulting detective. "It's your first case. You've only been back a month. Are you certain this is a good idea? No John means full immersion into the idiot pool without any sort of barrier. It's been two and half years; new faces and all. These new forensics guys are..." Lestrade dropped his voice to just above a whisper, "It's bad, Sherlock. Look, just, try not to make anyone cry, yeah?"

"I don't know whether to be alarmed by the lack of confidence you have in your own team, or to be relieved by the fact that you finally realized the obvious failures of the current new recruit training employed by the MET." Sherlock groaned when, as if on cue, a forensics tech who appeared to be fresh out of university stepped directly in a pool of blood and proceeded to leave a crimson trail around the perimeter of the scene.

A slight simultaneous twitch of the right corner of his lip and his right eye was the only indication on the stony face that Lestrade needed to intervene before Sherlock began the verbal massacre. "Clear the scene. Now!" Lestrade bellowed. Silence descended upon the alley just as another forensics tech dropped the evidence bag he was sealing, spilling the gooey contents down the front of his coveralls. The Crimson Footprint and the Gooey Wonder (Lestrade finally understood why it was Sherlock never took the time to remember anyone's name - these two idiots were not long for this particular vocation) traded awkward glances, and then had the _audacity_ to giggle.

Sherlock kept himself rigidly still, but he worked his jaw, itching to tear into the Blundering Duo. As he opened his mouth to level the first scathing indictment, Lestrade reached his limit. "There's no _giggling_ at crime scenes! Go. NOW." The D.I.'s tone was pure ice, the likes of which startled even Sally Donovan. "Sally, get them out of here, and tell Wright he better get here now. I don't care if it is his day off, we need someone from forensics here immediately."

Clearing his throat, Sherlock smirked. "'No giggling at crime scenes,' Graham? Honestly. Those two are most definitely imbecile. You on the other hand..."

"Are you actually going to do what I called you here to do, or are you just going to stand around insulting me all night?" Lestrade snapped as he gestured broadly at the bloody pile that had _probably_ , at one point been a human being, _maybe_ two. More likely one and a half.

"If you must know, I'm waiting on my assistant." Sherlock condescended as he began a slow pace around the edge of the perimeter, rolling his eyes when he came to the bloody prints left by the inept forensics tech.

"What are you on about?" Lestrade huffed in exasperation. "I thought you said John isn't coming."

"Indeed. Though I think you will find his replacement for the afternoon to be someone who is familiar with crime scene etiquette, and unphased by the brutality one human is capable of unleashing on another. What this individual lacks in intelligence, basic deductive reasoning, and personality, is more than made up for in... enthusiasm, and a willingness to follow orders." The consulting detective conveniently kept his back turned to the D.I. for the entirety of his description. Lestrade's shoulders drooped and he exhaled deeply as he tried to put the pieces together. There was a commotion at the police barrier behind them. "Ah, splendid, he's arrived! He's with me officer! Let him through!" Sherlock called over his shoulder

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lestrade turned slowly to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's mystery assistant. "Oh bloody hell. Sherlock, it's a good thing you're already dead, otherwise I'd kill you right now. He's not allowed..."

"Oh! Hey, boss... uhmm... Sorry. _Detective Inspector_. Holmes didn't tell me this was _your_ scene. _Brilliant!_ Like old times!" Philip Anderson reached out and shook his former boss's hand enthusiastically. "Is Donovan around? Sal? You here?" He glanced around the scene and they made eye contact.

"Phil?" Donovan squeaked. "What? What're you... You can't..."

"I'm Holmes's Watson for the day!" Anderson beamed.

"Ah, no. No you are not." Sherlock was quick to correct.

"Oh God." Lestrade groaned.

"I asked you along because Lestrade and John have both been bemoaning the shoddy work of the current inexperienced forensics techs, and _you_ ," Sherlock turned on Anderson, and pointed at him accusatorily, "You owed me for going along with my intrusive brother and conducting that _illegal_ drugs search in my home. So if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you could drop the pleasantries, and get to work."

"Sherlock, a word?" Lestrade didn't wait for the consulting detective to respond. He grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him halfway down the alley. "Now look. I'm willing to put up with a lot. No, don't you make that face. _A LOT._ But I fired Anderson. _Two years ago_. He's not allowed anywhere near a crime scene. He can't be here... as much as I wish..." Lestrade trailed off as he watched Anderson step into the required coveralls and pull on a pair of rubber gloves. "What... What's he doing?"

"I believe he's following crime scene protocol." Sherlock's retort exuded smugness.

Lestrade scrubbed his hand down his face.

"I recommend you reevaluate his personnel file, and consider making a case to your superiors in favor of rehiring him. I am loathe to work with him myself, but having seen the state of things today, you are without other options." Sherlock nodded his head once, matter-of-factly, and strode toward Anderson, who was crouched over the pile of remains. With a low growl he directed a comment at Anderson. Lestrade couldn't make it out, but he assumed it was an insult. His suspicion was confirmed when the two began bickering back and forth, each attempting to one-up the other with grand gestures and venomous words.

"Aren't you going to _do_ something?" Sally hissed, completely bewildered.

"Yeah. Yeah I am." He gave her a hard sidelong glance. "I'm going to pull Anderson's file, and then I'm going to pull some strings and get him reinstated."

Donovan attempted a response, but all she could manage sounded very much like, "Guh?" She stood there, slack jawed and stunned silent as she watched Holmes and Anderson in the midst of a full blown yelling match.

"Right." Lestrade pulled his mobile out and dialed John. "Sorry to bother you at work mate, but if you can get away, I think I might need your help."

"Kind of swamped, Greg. What's up?"

"I'll send you the address. It's Sherlock."

There was silence on the other end of the call.

"John."

" _What did you do_?" John's voice was strained, and papers were being shuffled and drawers being slammed in the background. Lestrade thought for sure he could _hear_ John narrowing his eyes into a glare.

"I swear, it's only a three. A four at the most. He'd been on my case all morning when this came up. I didn't think it would hurt."

"We _agreed_ , Greg. First case back, you call _me._ He's not ready by himself."

"Ah, well... He brought an assistant."

"He did what now? He..."

"Anderson. He brought bloody Anderson with him."

Lestrade had to hold the phone away from his ear as John reacted exactly the way he had expected. Loud and vulgar. _Very_ loud and vulgar.

"Better?" Lestrade asked tentatively.

"Address." John snapped. "You and I _will_ have words." With that John disconnected the call.

The D.I. looked up from his mobile and stumbled back. Sherlock was looming over him. "So, John's coming then? Excellent."

"That... That was your plan all along? All of this to get John out of work. You..." Lestrade seethed. "I'm in hell. It's the only thing that makes sense. I've died and gone to hell. You're still dead, and I'm stuck here with you for eternity."

"Did you hit your head? Perhaps you're in shock. Should I fetch a blanket for you?" Sherlock feigned concern.

"Sod off!" Lestrade growled as he stomped back to the police barrier to wait for John's arrival.

With a shrug and self-satisfied grin, Sherlock spun with a flourish and traipsed back to hurl insults at Anderson.


End file.
